Frankly, Love, It's a Bitter Cycle
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [Everyone!Fic; DeanSeamus slash implications, but mostly general views on characters] "There's a war outside your door, honey, it's knockin' and comin' in for dinner..." How long does it take to pick up pieces of an old life?


_Frankly, Love, It's a Bitter Cycle_

By Kay

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. I am poor and cannot buy its rights. The Queen of England cannot buy its rights, for chrissake.

Author's Notes: Just experimenting with the "End of the World, What If…?" idea. Flashes of what people are going through on the day the war "ends" supposedly—it needs to be fattened up, but oh well. Some mentions of SLASH pairings (specifically, Dean/Seamus, and it's very small), but overall it's a normal angsty fic.

* * *

The headlines say the war is over.

For a long time, he stands there in his kitchen doorway in the morning sun that spills through the windows, tilting the newspaper so that it catches the light. The words are black, blocky, and impose on his brain like a livid stamp.

The wood planks of his floor are warm against the bare souls of his feet, and he walks slowly to the fireplace and crouches there in the soot. Touches the worn, battered wand stuck in his belt loop gently, brushing callused fingertips across it, and considers.

The kettle is whistling softly in the kitchen. He doesn't move, but waits until Hermione's padding footsteps against the linoleum come and take the sound away. Continues to wait by the fireplace.

Someone will be calling him soon, Ron knows. To let him pick up the pieces.

If there are any left over to pick up.

_wasn't there a place I was supposed to be_

"I can't tell you how sorry I am for your loss," Dumbledore says quietly, eyes watching him carefully and with a pity that he's grown too numb to refute. "Everything will be taken care of while you're away, of course; I know that Professor Wendell will be more than willing to take on your class while you sort our your business."

Neville smiles weakly at him from the chair, resisting the urge to run the back of his hand across his nose. Instead, he sniffles, the sore muscles of his face clenching. "I know. Thank you. It won't be long... maybe a week or so—"

"Take as long as you need," the old man says gently. The wrinkles of his ancient face are fixed in an expression of empathy, understanding in a way that makes Neville want to burst into tears again. "I understand that your grandmother has taken care of you for your entire life. It is a difficult thing to bear, this loss, and I am willing to give you as much time as you need to recover."

His hands are sweaty; he wipes them down his robes, ignoring the lump rising in his scratchy throat, and nods. "Th-thank you, Headmaster."

"I daresay your students will miss you," Dumbledore says with a sudden smile. "But you'll leave them in good hands, I believe."

"Yes. Thank you."

He stands then, politely taking a lemon drop when Dumbledore offers it, and sucks on the sour candy for a moment. As he leaves, his eyes catch a newspaper draped across the desk, the headlines blaring, "WAR IS OVER" in large letters.

"It's a wonderful day," Neville says, but he can't seem to mean it. Dumbledore only looks at him with that pity again.

"Indeed."

_somewhere far beyond the stains of this cup_

The cell stinks of rats and mildew, but he's long since stopped noticing.

Sometimes the guards will change, and each one casts a contemptible glance at him, sneering. He used to snarl insults at them, but the fire has gradually flickered into shadow, leaving him hollow and barren of whatever life had kept him fighting.

Now he only waits.

He rarely hears about the outside world. Sometimes snatches of conversation will reach his ears from his captors' hushed words—news of the war front, the turning tide, and the eventual victory that was surely within their hands. He doesn't bother to decide if this is truth or a lie; either way, the war has already ended for him a long time ago. Now there is nothing left of it except its consequences, the damp stones under his chilled fingers, and the gnawing ache in his stomach.

He's long since grown used to this. Every day he stands up and walks in a small circle to keep the blood flowing in his pale, bare legs. The long tunic they gave him is barely enough to keep away the cold from his bones, but his entire body is so numb that it doesn't matter. The grease of his hair keeps him warm at night when the winds come howling through the window bars near the ceiling.

Today, the guards come for him. This is not like any other day; this is the day he's been waiting for.

"Draco Malfoy," a dark-eyed man says softly, dangerously. He stands at attention with three other guards all dressed in black and red robes. "It is time. Please stand."

His heart suddenly in his throat, he comes to his feet, wobbling only slightly. The heavy click of the lock is unfamiliar to his ears, but a most welcome change. The guards come in—they bind his hands behind his back, tie a black bind around his eyes tightly, and lead him carefully out of the cell. He is shaking from head to toe, but he doesn't know if it's fear or excitement, and perhaps it is both.

As they lead him down the corridor, he hears whispers from the other guards again—"_It's the end of the war, didn't you hear? You-Know-Who is dead. His masses have been destroyed. My wife is going to make a celebration dinner tonight, do you want to—" _

"Who's that kid?"

"What?" Draco stumbles slightly, pushed forward again by the guards through an iron-cast door he can't see, and the whispers fade behind him. The door shuts in the darkness.

_"That kid? That's Draco Malfoy. He goes to the Dementors tonight."_

i'm lost in this unbalanced symmetry

The cemetery is so quiet that the crunch of dead leaves under Remus' boots seems almost obscene. He moves carefully through the paths until he finds the stones he is looking for, and kneels down on one knee in the soil at their base. The tombstone surfaces are grainy and dry, worn from years of rain and perseverance, and he tugs off his thick gloves to run a pale fingertip over the words fading there.

"They're all celebrating on the streets," he whispers thickly, tracing the names with his fingernails. "Throwing parties. They say today is a good day to visit old friends… but all of my old friends are here. So here I am, James. And Lily. To see my old friends."

It has been years since he's visited this cemetery—too many bad memories cloud this place, too much guilt and anger connected to the people he loved so much. Those feelings have long disappeared under time and truth, though, and he thinks now, crouching next to these markers, that it has been too long indeed.

"It's over." He swallows the husky tone of his voice, startled at how melancholy it sounds. "It's truly over, at least the fighting part. We can move onto rebuilding again. The Dark Lord is gone, his minions mostly captured, and… and I wanted to let you know, although I'm certain you already do, that Harry is fine. Just fine."

He gently tugs away the clinging weeds at the base, uprooting the plants and throwing them to the side as he cleans the gravesite. His voice rises, trembling, as he continues, "I just thought you should know. You deserved to know. It's over now. It's finally, finally over, James... Lily…"

_'Over… but at what a price. At what a loss. So many.'_

As the first drops fall onto the ground, vanishing into the dirt, Remus is truly surprised to find himself crying. He hadn't realized that there were still tears left behind to shed.

it's a neverending indignity, you see

Dean is waving from the top of the hill.

He raises a hand to shadow his eyes from the sunlight, squinting across the great distance as his hair whips in the wind around him. Finally recognizing the figure, Seamus waves back, a brief smile alighting on his dirty and smudged face. The soot coated over it almost cracks with the power of that grin, but it swiftly fades into a serious, exhausted expression.

He waits until the man has fumbled down the hillside, sweater flying up his stomach from the force of the gale. When he finally jogs quickly to Seamus' side, Dean's dark eyes are glittering with tired relief, a slight slip of a smile lingering over his mouth. "Everyone is celebrating in town. The Harrigans say we can stay at their place for now, as long as we can gather enough to make it through a while. At least until we can contact everyone we need."

"Fantastic," Seamus says, and finds he truly means it. Dean flashes him a concerned, empathic glance.

"It could have been worse," the man says neutrally, crouching down and picking up a piece of charred wood. It nearly crumbles in his fingertips—his face darkens. "We could have been inside, Seamus."

"I know." The blonde stares out emptily across the space before them, holding himself tightly for warmth. The smoke is already starting to clear away in the breeze, nothing more than a black cloud vaguely lingering in the air. "It's just…"

"I know," Dean says quietly.

Despair glimmers in the depths of Seamus eyes, and he blinks back unexpected tears. Gesturing towards the ruins of their house, burnt to the ground in the night during a final, desperate attack from the Death Eaters, he asks, "What do we do now? The war is over… but what do we have left? They've left us with _nothing_, Dean. All of our things… your soccer jerseys, the candlesticks Mum gave me for our anniversary, my… my photo albums of school…" His throat catches, thick with a lump, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

"We have each other," Dean protests impulsively, though he too feels this great loss—his hand shoots out to squeeze his lover's. "You moron. We're still together. And isn't it obvious what we do?"

"What?" Seamus mumbles, rubbing his eyes, but he feels a little better.

"We rebuild," Dean tells him affectionately, and ruffles his wind-blown hair. "Just like everyone else."

these scavengers will never be full enough

The pub is a mess of loud music and catcalls, the smog of the atmosphere nearly drowning all sensible sound. In the dim lighting at the bar, Marcus Flint slumps in his chair, still wearing a heavy trench coat over his robes. His arms are resting on the counter between two empty glasses of cheap beer and an ashtray already piled with several stubbed cigarettes.

The last one of his pack is in his mouth, the smoke thick and gray as it curls around his face. Marcus takes a deep breath and inhales it; the ember at the end burns a fiery orange, flaring and dying again.

Everyone is celebrating. The war is over. The Dark Lord is dead.

"I want another drink," he tells the bartender. The man raises an eyebrow at his tired, grim expression, but sets another damp glass on the table. Marcus doesn't touch it at first—no, he continues slowly burning away the cigarette, flicking the ashes over the scratched wooden counter with indifference.

His parents are dead. His sister is alone in the Flint Mansion, probably huddled in a small wardrobe and sobbing, hiding from the world and the staff that don't know what to do. He feels a black, ugly and raw place in his stomach every time he thinks about her cuddled there and grieving. It hasn't stopped hurting even now.

His fingers clench the glass. Nothing's stopped hurting for a long time.

And truthfully, he isn't really surprised at all when a presence coughs beside him and announces itself. He isn't shocked to turn and find the wizard, cloaked in black and hard-faced, wand subtly poking out towards his ribcage, waiting for him. He just sits there, wondering whether to finish his drink or not in an absentminded way.

"Mr. Flint, we're here to arrest you for suspected Death Eater activities," the man says quietly, so the rest of the bar won't hear. Marcus senses extra eyes on him and knows there are probably other wands trained on him in the bar, each man ready to take him out at a bad move.

When he taps the cigarette out in the ashtray, his fingers are shaking just a little—and for some reason, he is more proud of that than anything else he has done in this war. It was only a matter of time.

He finishes the drink. Feels the sour liquid run down his throat. Then he nods to the wizard, slowly stands, and they exit the bar together.

it's a strange sort of beauty for the raptors

Severus Snape wants very badly to hurt someone.

He's always hated hospitals. If the ailment is something he can't fix with his potions, then there's no reason to seek out artificial means of treatment—it means he should either be recovering soon, or already dead. In the entire time he worked at Hogwarts, he's never went to the hospital wing for anything plaguing himself. There was no point to dealing with Madam Pomphrey's smothering maternal senses or her sickly-scented medicines.

Mungo's always smells like antiseptics and cheap, disgustingly lemony floor cleaner. It smells like powders and syrups, clinics for the ones near death, and he hates more than anything to smell the cloying scent of rubbing alcohol. Yet it lingers like a disease in every ward—a frightening agent that hides beneath the glimmering white tiles and walls, beneath the shine and blankness of the corridors.

He hates hospitals. He hates being a patient even more, having to rely on other people for everything. Even worse is this—lying in bed all day with nothing to do, every part of his body itching, waking in the nights to nightmares and pains he'd rather forget. He's come to realize that this is Hell. That he'd rather be dead right now.

He always thought he'd be dead right now.

And sometimes he wishes he could be—when Dumbledore comes to visit him, chewing lemon drops and babbling inanely about the students, or when the nurses giggle at him or chide him for his cold tone. And yet, as much as he hates the hospital, he almost dreads going back to school. He isn't even sure if he will yet.

Dumbledore has asked this question, of whether he will return or not. Asked with sorrowful, apologetic eyes. He understood. Too much, the damn fool, and even Severus feels a little lost and sick when he thinks about it.

He doesn't want to teach Potions to mindless children who are still meek and quiet from the war. He doesn't want to answer foolish questions to which he has no answers. And most of all, he doesn't want anyone to stare at him as he tries to mix his potions with one hand, the other robe's sleeve dangling loosely from his shoulder and completely empty.

He doesn't want it to be this way at all.

they're enraptured with the things they defend

"Have you got the last box?" Charlie calls from the stairway, attempting to balance three small crates in his arms. He peers over the side of them, dusty red hair falling into his eyes as he tries to see the steps he must use.

"Yeah, this should be the last of it," George says quietly. He flashes a thin, listless smile at his older brother. He is standing at the murky, dirty windows of the joke shop, staring out at the empty streets as the boxes heap silently around him. In the dim lighting, his freckles are blemishes that turn his pale skin a near shade of black.

Charlie sets down the boxes with a huff. He's been having trouble with his shoulder since the battle at Balberath—now he twists it a bit, wincing tightly. "I didn't realize there was so much left in storage."

"We tried to save as much as we could," George says absently. His sickly fingers pick away at one of the cardboard flaps. "There should be enough to get started, at least. Thanks for the help."

In the ruined shop, Charlie's face softens and grieves. "Are you sure you want to do this? You know that Bill offered to stay behind and help, too, but I don't want you to force yourself..."

George tries to smile, but it only looks gently sad. "He would have hated for me to stay in my room forever. He'd say I was a stupid git. And I wouldn't want that, Charlie."

"I know," his brother says simply.

"Besides," George murmurs, tracing clean lines in the dusty window with his fingertips, and they are words given to him a very long time ago. "I could do with a few laughs. We could all do with a few laughs. I've got a feeling we're going to need them more than usual now that it's over."

He writes _Weasleys' Wizarding Wheezes_ in the dirt on the glass. Stares at it with haunted eyes, because it is all wrong and he can't fix it.

And then, with a strangled sound of defeat,he smears it away.

_there's never and end to this_

The sun is setting and it is time for dinner.

Hagrid goes about in his usual way—he puts some meat on the fire for Fang, who is laying pitifully at the stove and looking up with a pleading expression in this big, brown eyes. He puts on a kettle, wipes his hands down his pants and stares out absentmindedly into the darkness of the forest outside of his hut. The night is cold and loud; the wind is restless, beating against the door.

He's lived in this hut for years. He knows it like the back of his hand. Tonight, it is a stranger almost, and he wants to be somewhere else.

_'There's still no sign of him,' _Dumbledore had said, a grave and deeply remorseful line to his mouth. That had been this afternoon. It was well into the late hours now.

He sits by the fire and waits, eyes dark, because the world tells him that nothing is over.

_it goes on over and over again_

Percy doesn't meant to find him at all. It is an accident. A coincidence.

"Hey… what are you doing in this ward?" the man in the hospital bed asks in surprise, recognition lighting up in his toffee-hued eyes. Though he is as deathly pale as his bandages, which cover half of his body and completely wrap his leg, Percy knows his face immediately.

"W-wood," he stammers, feeling an uncomfortable flush settle around his ears. He hasn't spoken to anyone from school or home for years now—time has allowed him to gradually crumble under the weight of his own failings and mistakes, and now he is barren, and barren is a horrible thing to be when one faces their past head on.

He has been rebuilding for a long, long time now. To be strong enough to see them. It wasn't supposed to happen like this.

Oliver Wood flashes him a tired smile, lines to his eyes giving testament to his obvious pain. "Pull up a chair. I could use some company… and it's been a long time, Perce. Do you still work for the Ministry?"

"No." Head pounding in misery, but still unwilling to flee, Percy slowly sits by his bedside. He stares at his hands in his lap uncertainly; not knowing where to put them, he curls them into careful fists. "Are you—ah, how are you doing?"

"Bloody awful," the old Quidditch captain states in a raw, bitter voice. His smile fades. "It's not been the best week, anyway, of course."

He does not know what to say to that, so he nods. They sit there silently like that for a while then—Oliver lost in dark thoughts, biting his lip savagely as though to keep the words from tumbling out—and Percy, knitting his fingers together, pale and drawn-out, exhausted, and still trying to fit the foundation of his person together before it falls under pressure. They sit there like that, and wait, and then because there's nothing left to do, they let it go. They have nothing left to loose.

"I can't play Quidditch ever again," Oliver says.

Percy looks up at him. The man's head is in his hands, tousled brown locks falling over his face, and his shoulders are jerking awkwardly. The room is still and soundless—it makes them very alone.

Hesitantly, as though remembering how, Percy touches Oliver's shoulder and breathes every soothing and false word his mother had ever taught him. It is the least he can do. It is the most he has to offer, though he isn't sure why he is offering it to someone he barely knew even in school—someone who isn't even hearing the words, but the tone, so wrapped up in their misery.

They are deaf to each other, but that is exactly how they know what to say.

_because, frankly, darling, it's a bitter cycle_

Peter Pettigrew is cold and wet.

The damp mud clings to every inch of his small, motley fur-patched body—it has dried in clumps on his naked tail, burrowed into the caverns of his ears. His toes are so coagulated with it that he can barely move, much less run down through the forest as he knows he must. The trunks are towering giants above his form, shadowed and threatening because they reveal nothing of their intentions.

He has no place to go. No one who would hide him, and Peter knows that. Icy fear gnaws at his chest because he knows it very, very well.

He is utterly alone in the world now. Dashing into the blackness, he knows this and is more terrified than he has ever been in his life.

_such a bitter, ugly cycle_

"They say the war is officially over," Luna says softly to her father. He is working diligently at his desk, spectacles shoved over his messy blonde hair, scrawling frantically at papers.

Nevertheless, he looks up at her voice and beams lovingly at her. He is a good father. He puts aside the newest notes for the Quibbler, leaning forward in his desk to ruffle the wayward strands of her hair. It is very much like her mother's; for this reason, he begs her not to cut it. She stopped asking within two years.

"It's never over, sweetheart," he explains warmly, though there is a pitying and melancholy shade to his eyes that was not there before. "It is never truly over."

"They say that the last battle has been fought. The Dark Lord is dead," his daughter says listlessly, slumping in the chair. Her face is shadowed. "Daddy, they say that Harry killed him. And the Death Eaters scattered, and now we're picking off the last of the suspects and taking them into custody. They say in the papers and on the streets that it's over."

Her father's smile is painful to look at for her.

"Luna… darling, these things don't clear up overnight. They can celebrate in the streets if they want. But both sides… we've both lost and won. People everywhere are touched by this great, horrible force—even the ones who did not fought, who never even realized there was a war on their backdoor step. At one time or another, _everyone_ has fought, whether on the battlefields or in their own way. There will be consequences. And then there will be beginnings. And then, another war."

"It's not fair," Luna says hoarsely. But her father is a wise man who has always taught her the truth—and now he dries her tears, gently wiping them from her cheeks, with all the care and tenderness of a parent who has brought their child from the worst of it. "Daddy…"

"Don't worry, sweetheart. Yes, the war is not over. The world will go on, though, and so will you."

_frankly, love, it's a bitter cycle_

Harry Potter is not going to die.

He knows this; every inch of his body is howling with pain from scraped skin and shallow cuts, burns splayed over the thick flesh of his shoulders. His glasses are crushed beneath his hand—the glass of the lens has become shards digging into his knuckles. The world is a blur around him, whether from his faulty eyesight or the ringing ache in his skull, he doesn't know. His left arm is possibly broken. His scar is searing, burning red-hot into his forehead.

But he is not going to die. Not today.

He hopes that someone has taken care of Voldemort's corpse. It was a ghastly thing—he couldn't bear to touch it, shuddered at the thought of the cold and waxy skin of the evil lord, and left it to lie in the dirt and rot. But it would be horrible if it were left there. It should be burned. Turned to ash. Destroyed.

He has destroyed enough for one day, however; this job would not be his.

It is a cold night. He shivers slightly, drawing his knees closer to his chest and letting his right arm curl around them. His cloak has long been torn to shreds in the fight and lost, and his bones are chilled to the white hollow of them. He may never be warm again. But he is not going to die today.

Sirius Black's gravestone stands before him. It has no body under it, only the solid earth and its ever-watching stones, but his name is printed in careful block letters for time to weather away. He has only been here twice. It is still too much to look at it, even after all these years. The weeds are so thick around the base that his fingers hurt when he tries to pull them up.

But it is not going to kill him today.

Harry just looks at it until the sun comes up, warming the deadened lead of his limbs, turning the cemetery into a misted, orange-shone sanctuary that he had always dreamed of sleeping forever in when this day finally, inevitably, came.

But he is not going to die today. Perhaps tomorrow, but today he will tremble against the marker of his godfather and cry into its cold, unyielding embrace.

_love, it's always like this for you_

_The End_


End file.
